Hell Rests in 221 Baker Street
by igotthemoveslikegravity
Summary: Sherlock's likeness to the corpses he investigates is no longer due to his negligence, but rather to the fact that he is Death. Ms. Hudson serves as the Grim Reaper and John is a very, very lost soul.


**Note: This is taking place with BBC's Sherlock, Watson and other characters. Sherlock hasn't met John yet, and is Death. Ms. Hudson is the Grim Reaper. John is a dead man. Sherlock may-or-may-not be using drugs. **

"Boys, you've got another one!" Ms. Hudson yelled from the bottom of the staircase that connected 221 A and B. Her hand held as much shirt as she could grab off the man beside her-a surprising amount considering how small her hands were.

"Toss him up." Sherlock said tonelessly from his flat, the sound traveling fine-inferring the door was left open.

"I'm not _your_ grim reaper," Ms. Hudson put the hand that wasn't filled with shirt onto her hip. "I'm-"

"Yes, you're _the _grim reaper." A sigh sounded throughout the building. "Just send him up, will you?"

Ms. Hudson released her grip on the man, his face coming out of the shadows of the doorway. He had sandy, worn hair. His age was unseeable, he could be in his mid fifties or late twenties, whatever his age, him and his face had gone threw hell.

He stepped forward to the beginning of the staircase, his previously twitching hand dropping dead along his side. A quick glance back at Ms. Hudson revealed her to be tediously picking at her grey-purple nails, her back against the door.

Though he previously seemed unresolved about being there he now clamped down his jaw a started up the stairs. Each step he took seemed to make him more and more uneasy, but he continued, strong.

After only six steps he heard a violin start to play. The music reminded him of the feeling he often got when he was on lookout in the army. It was always very late nights that he was out of the tents. Danger seemed to be the waxy seal keeping the dirt to their skin. He used to drag a man out with him every time. He never learnt the other man's name. Afghanistan is no place to make friends. The man would hum songs. They all seemed exceedingly morbid, but they made everyone happier.

He finally reached the open door that the music was coming out of. He saw mess everywhere. Body parts on window seals, old bones all pointing to a worn skull on the mantle in the farthest wall from the door way. Curly black hair seeped over the face of the almost-man slumped in the chair facing the door.

"Name, _please."_ Sherlock said _please _as though it stirred a tif he had with someone. The music never stopped.

"John Watson." His voice came as though he was discussing where to order food from. It surprised him.

"Mmm. Sit." He stopped playing. "_Please."_

John walked over, his limp and shaking hand returning. He sat, his back collapsing into the chair.

"_How?"_ Sherlock said with distaste, his voice somehow remaining bored.

"How what?"

"How. Did. You. Die." A scowl flashed from underneath his untamed hair, but quickly went.

"Shot after returning home from Afghanistan, by a bloody kid." John chuckled. "Is this the after life?"

"No. Ms. Hudson brings you here, I decide if you go…poof, or serve me in my undead police force." Sherlock started to fiddle with his violin.

"Was that a joke?" John straightened his back.

"It was an idea. Any remaining life in you will disappear into the atmosphere. Sometimes I use people, but I won't you." He flicked his hair away from his eyes revealing his cheekbones and pale eyes. "Also, I know one of your army mates killed you."

"How?"

"No 'kid' would have access to a gun in this city, and because of your height I can assume you've always been touchy about judging people on age, so you must have sincerely disliked him. Recently returned soldiers are able to disarm a single adult thug, much less a decidedly young one. Therefore, said kid is fellow soldier, most likely taller than you, but not by much and held a grudge against you. Friend of his dies while you were on duty?"

"Fantastic." John's pupils dilated but Sherlock was back fiddling with his violin.

They sat in silence for a few moments. A text alert sounded twice from Sherlock's bathrobe pocket, but it took till the third for him to take it out. He tapped it a few times and sighed. He jumped up from the chair with a speed unimagined and rushed about the flat grabbing scarves and shoes and finally a large black coat. John sat paralyse in the seat as Sherlock disappeared out the door. Three loud steps down, then back up, and his black curls reappeared int he door way.

"Will you come?" He asked.

"Why me?" John pouted.

"I could use a doctor. I won't work with the one there."

"I'm not a do-"

"Surgeon. Whatever. Are you coming?"

"Okay."

Sherlock ran out the door and John wondered why he had said that. He got up regardless and ran after Sherlock, his gun tucked firmly in his waistband. One thought went threw his head, _I'm forgetting something._


End file.
